How could he resist? He splayed his hands against Aurora’s ribcage and slid them up over her breasts. Slowly. Painstakingly slow. Her eyes closed and her breaths came in rapid succession. The juxtaposition of her taut nipples followed by soft breasts against his palms was a sensation he’d never forget. Exquisite agony. Just like everything else about her.
She moved her hips against him then, sliding her moist heat over his leg in an all-too-familiar rhythm. Quin raised his knee to help her. With his thumbs and fingers, he rolled those pert little nipples around and watched his wife come to the precipice of ecstasy.
“Yes, love,” he crooned in her ear. “Almost there.”
She was, too—panting and rocking her hips and searching for release with her eyes rolled back in her head. Deep in her throat, soft, little sounds formed.
Aurora reached down and unbuttoned the flap of his breeches, placing her hand inside and stroking his length. He kissed her again, sliding his tongue over hers to mimic her hand. When she squeezed just so, he nearly lost control. “Oh, God. Just like that, Aurora. I lo”
He cut himself off before he could finish the thought. Quin pulled away from her. Aurora stumbled when his weight no longer pinned her to the wall. Her eyes spoke to her confusion.
Walking to his chamber, Quin called out over his shoulder, “If you want me to finish what I’ve started, you know where to find me.”
He couldn’t tell her. Not now. Not yet.
~ * ~
Oh, damn and blast. The door closed behind Quin. How could he leave her in such a state? If he didn’t keep touching her, Aurora thought she might die. Her body ached for the release that only he had ever provided her.
But she’d be damned if she would follow that blasted man and beg him to finish what he’d started. With a huff, Aurora turned to her own chamber and slammed the door behind her. Hopefully he heard it. Abominable man, toying with her like that.
She riffled through a couple of her chests, hoping to find another nightrail, since he’d torn the one she had on to shreds, but with no luck. It was all too new. She didn’t know where Rose had stored anything yet.
And she couldn’t very well ring for the maid now. Not with her bosom hanging out for all the world to see.
Sleep. She’d just go to sleep and worry about her nightrail in the morning, and forget all about Quin and the way his touch made her feel. Aurora climbed into her bed and slid beneath the counterpane, willing her mind to forget all that had happened.
Her mind might have complied, but her body refused. It still thrummed for Quin’s touch, aching for his mouth. Blast him. She tried rolling over, but the movement of the bedding against her sensitive flesh sent a jolt through her body. Oh, dear good Lord. Perhaps she ought not to move at all. Maybe it would go away. Aurora lay still for as long as she could stand it. Probably not for more than a few moments, at most.
She could, perhaps, make it go away herself. Couldn’t she? With a tentative hand, she slid it over one sensitive breast. Her eyes flew open. Oh. Oh, my. That was actually somewhat pleasant. She tried it again, pressing harder this time—and attaining only a slightly better result.
At this rate, she would only keep herself up all night with trying for something that would never happen. She had no idea what to do. But Quin always knew exactly what to do.
Blast, blast, blast, damn, blast.
Aurora tossed back the counterpane and marched through her room and the sitting room, throwing back the door to Quin’s chamber with all her might. He sat completely naked on the edge of his massive bed, fully aroused, surrounded by the glow of candlelight.
“I hope you’re well and truly happy with yourself.” Aurora reached his side in three strides, and then straddled his legs, rubbing her heated center against his length. She kissed him, getting drunk from the brandy still on his tongue. “Finish it,” she said against his lips. “Please, Quin. Finish it.”
He lifted her by the hips and settled her over him. As she lowered, he filled her. Aurora waited. She waited for him to flip her to her back and come over top of her, but he just smiled.
“You finish it,” he drawled with a fiendish glint in his eye.
Oh, gracious Lord in heaven. She never knew…
~ * ~
Thank God she’d come to him. Even through two closed doors, he could hear Aurora’s little sounds as she’d tried to pleasure herself. Or perhaps he only imagined them. Either way, it was enough to send him to Bedlam with need.
Quin had won that little contest.
He won another when she attempted to leave after they were both sated, by pulling her arm until she spun around and fell atop him, her nose landing only an inch from his. “Where do you think you’re going, love?” he asked as the tickle of her hot breath danced over his lips.
“Back to my chamber,” she said with a haughty tone. “Thank you for finishing.”
Aurora pulled at her arm, but he kept his grip firm and tight. She was not going anywhere. He wouldn’t allow her to leave.
Instead, Quin rolled to his side, pulling her over the top of him to settle in by his side. He draped an arm and a leg over her, effectively trapping her where she lay. “I would prefer you to stay,” he said, not truthfully as a preference. “‘Love, honor, and obey’, remember? At the very least you can handle the ‘obey’ part of the equation.” He’d handle the love for both of them, unless he could find a way to force it to cease.
Her scowl shone through the moonlit shadows of the room. Then she squirmed and wiggled until she had her back to him.
Quin pulled her closer, wrapping both arms around her and relishing Aurora’s outraged gasp when his cock pressed against her firm little derrière. However delightful the idea of making love to her in such a position may be, he needed sleep first or else he might fall asleep inside her. It had been a rather taxing couple of days. Just to goad her a bit further, though, he took a breast in each palm and massaged them until she arched her back, pressing further into his hands. Christ, her body was so responsive. She may not love him, but her body certainly did.
He whispered into her ear, “Are you ready, love?”
“What?” she screeched. “You can’t—you wouldn’t”
Quin laughed. “Oh, I can and I will. But not now. Go to sleep, Aurora.” Before he changed his mind.
Before he fell further in love.
Before he told her.
Chapter Eighteen
18 May, 1811
I still keep my journal hidden from Quin. I do not want him to know that I’m writing, even though the things I write are really only the silly musings of a lonely wife. What a pathetic soul I am. Regrettably, I no longer have the intense urge to write, to pour my heart and soul into the ink and parchment, to while away the hours creating tales. Perhaps I am too lost to find my way out of just such a tale at the moment. I no longer know.
~From the journal of Lady Quinton
They’d settled into much the same pattern as they had in London. Every morning, Quin rose and breakfasted without Aurora, and then left to meet with his steward, or to have a discussion with the butler, or perhaps to ride over the grounds so he could meet with his field hands and tenants. He might hole himself up of an afternoon in the undercroft, which he’d turned into a brandy-filled office, and go over the reports that Mr. Carruthers gave him, or he might instead go out to the Hog’s Head and enjoy the company of the locals.
She would wake in his big, empty bed when it felt cold without his heat and go about her day alone—discussing the meals with Cook, or managing the household accounts with Mrs. Marshall, or occasionally speaking with Forster about changes she wanted to make to the furnishings in the salon. Occasionally she would take some exercise by walking through the park, or speak with the gardener about the possibility of planting a rose garden.
When she ran out of things to do with the household staff, Aurora often escaped to the refectory and its endless supply of books. At least there, she could pretend she wasn’t quite
so alone. The characters kept her company.
Occasionally Aurora would receive a letter from Father or Rebecca in the afternoon and she’d dash off to read it. Rebecca’s Season was turning out to be rather grand, as she’d somehow attracted three more amorous suitors in addition to the ever-present Lord Norcutt. Father was as busy as ever with Parliament. He missed her terribly, but kept himself entertained with a concert here and an opera there. She wrote back to them both immediately upon receiving and perusing their letters, careful to never let on how lonely she’d become. It would not do to worry them. So instead, she told them of grand country house parties they’d attended, and lied about how Quin would take her on picnics by the river.
The lies only hurt her, after all.
But then Aurora would wait for Quin to come home. She’d hold supper for him, hoping that he would return and share a meal with her even though she knew he never would. Then she’d go up to their sitting room and wait for him, often falling asleep due to the lateness of the hour while reading yet another book from the refectory, or working a piece of embroidery, or doing anything at all to keep her occupied other than writing in her journal.
When Quin returned home, he always smelled of brandy. He always tasted of it, too.
Each time he came to her, he’d take her book or her stitchery and set it on the table beside her, then lift her into his arms and carry her to his bed.
For as inattentive as he was to her during the day, Quin more than made up for it at night—at least in regard to physicality. Aurora had never imagined there were as many ways to perform the marriage act as he taught her. Forward, backward, upside down. Using their hands, mouths, tongues. On her knees, the floor, a table. His imagination in terms of pleasure knew no bounds. Every time she was certain he could no longer shock her, he did something even more outrageous and convinced her otherwise.
And then, after he spilled himself deep inside her womb, every night he would pull her against him, wrap his limbs around her, and sleep.
She would sleep too—eventually. After her heart slowed to a natural pace and his breathing came in even increments across her neck and shoulder, and after the light sounds of his snoring started in her ear so she was certain he was asleep, then she would allow herself a moment to cry, and finally she would sleep.
Lying there with him, tangled in his slumberous strength—that was when she felt more alone than she’d felt in her entire life. It was odd how the moment each night when she and Quin were physically connected, when he was inside her, was the moment she felt the most alive, the most loved. He very nearly worshipped her, with a level of devotion to her pleasure that was staggering when they came together. But then, only a few moments later, she would feel bereft and empty.
They had gone on in just this manner for nearly the first three weeks of their stay at Quinton Abbey. Nearly long enough for Aurora to expect her courses again, which undoubtedly would arrive like clockwork, just as they always had.
She did have one tiny glimmer of hope: the past few mornings, she’d been unable to keep her breakfast down where it belonged. Surely the magnitude of her despair had not reached such proportions as to make her physically ill. Surely it could be a sign of a babe in her womb.
But it was still far too early to allow for hope. Hope would only make it hurt worse when nothing happened. Much like how she’d allowed herself to hope for Quin’s love. That hope was dying a slow, painful death, further exacerbated by the dawning realization that—for some strange reason—she had developed a certain level of affection for him. Perhaps more than an affection.
Aurora shrugged it off and searched the shelves of the refectory for something new to read. She slipped past the sections of Burns’s and Wordsworth’s poetry, since she had read them in recent days. Blake seemed too bleak for her mood at the moment. She kept walking, trying to find something that called to her. Nothing did.
What she really wanted was to write. She hadn’t dared touch her journal, however, since their arrival at Quinton Abbey other than to make brief notes about her days—certainly not to write any stories. But perhaps if she could write a story, she could convince herself that she wasn’t actually falling in love with Quin.
Or maybe…
She could write of the marriage she wished they had. She could write of a husband who loved her and doted upon her, and actually spoke to her at times other than in the throes of bedding her. She could write of a beautiful baby with both a loving mother and a loving father. She could write her own happiness.
Perhaps if she wrote of that marriage, it could become reality. After all, she’d written of her marriage to Quin before she ever met him, and it had happened. She’d written of her fantastical ideas for in the bedroom, and they had happened.
Why should this not follow the same pattern?
Aurora dashed from the refectory to her chamber. She needed to write, and it simply could not wait any longer.
~ * ~
When Forster interrupted Aurora in the salon to announce, “Sir Jonas Buchannan, my lady,” she jumped halfway out of the chair she’d been in for the last several hours. In that time, she’d likely written a dozen pages of her new story.
Which was turning out to be delightful, to say the least. Granted, she already had some of it thought out, based on the lies she’d been writing to Rebecca and Father. But with her new additions, it was becoming ever more engaging with every stroke of her quill.
“Send him in,” she called over her shoulder as she put away her writing materials. “Oh, and Forster? Will you please have Mrs. Marshall send a tea tray in at her first convenience?” What was Sir Jonas doing in Wetherby? Perhaps Quin had sent for him out of boredom in his marriage. She would send for Rebecca if she could.
Once she had her ink pot capped and the journal and quill tucked neatly away, she stood and straightened her gown. Oh, bother. Some of the black ink had smudged over her fingers and was now spread across the rose lawn fabric of her gown.
But, there was nothing for it at the moment. Sir Jonas came across the threshold and bowed to her. “Lady Quinton, I trust that I find you well.” His dark features turned to a handsome smile.
Aurora wondered what might have happened had she met Sir Jonas before Quin. But wondering solved nothing, so she brushed the thought aside. “Indeed, you do. Please, have a seat.” She directed him to an armchair by the hearth. “Have you just arrived in Wetherby?”
“Mere moments ago, ma’am,” he said as he sat. His long legs stretched out before him, taking up nearly as much room as she imagined Quin’s would. She could only imagine, though, since she’d never seen him in the salon.
A maid came in and placed a tea tray before her, then curtsied and hurried on her way.
“Tea?” Aurora asked. On his nod, she set about serving him and continued. “And what brings you to Wetherby? Have you seen Quin yet?”
Sir Jonas reached across for his teacup and a scone. “I’d hoped to find him here with you. Is he not at home?” he asked with an almost imperceptible frown, swiftly replaced by a merely inquisitive smile.
“No. I’m afraid he is infrequently at home during the day, sir.” Aurora took a sip of her tea, grimaced, and then reached for more sugar. “I do not expect his return until rather late in the evening.”
This time, Sir Jonas openly scowled. “This is common for him, ma’am? He leaves you alone on a regular basis?”
Oh, dear. Had she gotten Quin in trouble with his friend? That certainly had not been her intention. “It is somewhat common, I’m afraid.” No need to tell the man just how common. “But it is for good reason, I assure you. He spends a great deal of time with his steward and his tenants.”
“And leaving you to your own devices,” Sir Jonas said rather pointedly.
Oh, bother. Did he think she was writing again? Oh. Right. She was.
But it wasn’t the same kind of writing. And no one was around to see what she was writing, or to take it from her. It was all truly innocent. I
t had been all along.
She simply needed to write.
But then Sir Jonas smiled, an affable, pitying kind of smile. “I’m afraid that your husband is not being a very good husband to you, Lady Quinton.”
Her eyes widened, and she fought to conceal her emotions. They were surely spreading all over her face. She couldn’t allow him to think that—despite how true it might be. “You are quite mistaken, Sir Jonas. He is an excellent husband.”
That didn’t sound very convincing. Not even to Aurora’s own ears.
“Of course, you’re right,” he said, nonetheless.
Perhaps he wouldn’t press her on the matter. That was very kind of him. Aurora had only met Sir Jonas on a very few occasions, but she was growing to like his company rather immensely.
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